


Effect

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [15]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holidays, memories, and a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Live By The Sword 'verse. A companion piece to **Consequence**.
> 
> Movie dialogue from **It's A Wonderful Life**.

The holidays were always the worst.

No matter what he did, or who he spent them with, they were always the same. After a few years of putting up with elderly aunts or the remnants of his father’s family, Arthur decided it was best to tell everyone who called he did have plans, thank you so much for offering, and stay at home instead, tv and phone off, body buried in piles of blankets, the chill that never seemed to leave him on those days permeating his skin all the way through his marrow.

 

Thank God his rank and (unusually long) seniority with the PD allowed him to be able to get the days off. He had tried working at first; the last time he had overreacted on a stakeout and had come close to shooting his own foot. After that, he elected to stay home. This time, he had eaten the requisite foods and had even indulged in mocha chip ice cream (he could hear the voice ‘heart attack in a carton, Arthur!’ in his memory but ignored it). He sat in front of the television, ice cold and shivering under a wool throw, trying to concentrate on an old movie, the hot coffee in front of him not helping much.

 

“Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

 

Arthur pulled a face; he never did understand why this particular movie was so popular. He thought it a piece of shmaltzy claptrap – which for him was somewhat harsh. Even Lancelot had accused him of being overtly mean about it. Clicking the remote, he sat in the sudden silence – the noise of the choppers and streets second nature to him, easy to ignore. He drank the rest of his coffee, and was rising to get more when the phone rang.

 

Not recognizing the number, he waited for the machine to pick up, standing next to the little niche in the wall where the thing rested, mug in hand, blanket still wrapped securely around him.

 

_This is the Castus residence. Leave a message._

 

… “Arthur?”

 

Arthur stayed frozen to the floor, eyes ticking around himself as if the voice could see him through the phone if he moved. He hadn’t broken down and bought a videophone yet, so there was no chance of that. He waited.

 

“Arthur.” _Sigh._ “Look. I know you’re home. Pick up.”

 

As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t. He kept listening.

 

“…fine. I was just…passing by the phone, and thought I should check on you. It’s been a while – since the court thing, I guess.”

 

Arthur laughed bitterly. Leave it to Lancelot to refer to his murder trial as the ‘court thing.’

 

_Big sniff._ “So – how are you? Oh, wait…I guess you can’t answer, since I’m not actually talking to you. Silly me,” _short laugh._ “I know how you get around the holidays.” _Silence._ “Arthur, come on. Pick up. I can’t do this on the machine.”

 

His hand reached out, but didn’t quite make it to the receiver. Still he waited, and listened.

 

“At any rate…I…can’t we just be friends? Look, I’ll be around later. Here’s my private number…”

 

He listed the new cell number, Arthur not needing to write it down – he commited it to memory easily, notating that Lancelot seemed to change his number almost as often as his clothing. Came from being hounded by the law and the press, he guessed.

 

_Short sigh, sound of keys fumbling._ “Call me, okay? I just want to make sure you’re doing alright. Okay.” _Big pause_ , “I…I’ll talk to you later.”

 

Click.

 

Arthur stared at the phone for a full five minutes, wondering what he should do, if anything. Finally he shook his head, blinked his burning eyes, and continued on into the kitchen.

 

*

 

The late mass attendees were mostly gone, and Arthur sat quietly at the back of the cathedral. It was one of the only churches left in the city not destroyed or taken over by some kind of gang leader wanna be – and he realized with some regret he hadn’t visited in several years. He thought momentarily of going to confession, but changed his mind as an old lady got in the vestibule ahead of him, moaning about her filthy grandchildren. Moving to the small side area, he knelt by the very old and chipped statue of the Virgin, one of the only ones he still liked; most of the current icons were either poorly done replicas or too vivid for his taste.

 

A few candles were lit; he added one of his own.

 

Fumbling with the chain around his neck (he hadn’t worn it in a long time), he brought out the onyx cross, staring at it briefly, then, with the thing clasped in his hand, he prayed, and remembered.

 

*

 

Cloudy sky. Cold air. Empty promenade, except for him and Lance.

 

“I don’t know, Lance. Do you think she’ll even want these?”

 

A sharp laugh from his best friend. “My sister, not want diamonds? You are kidding, right?” The salesperson was eyeing them; two older teenagers, paying in cash, buying three sets of identical earrings, weren’t exactly the normal customers for her. 

Arthur laughed with him, and paid the woman, who bagged up their things with a dubious expression. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called out as they left the shop, and Arthur and Lancelot laughed again, sharing a knowing look. “If she knew us, really,” Lance said in a furtive voice. Arthur smirked, looking around at the empty street. “Man,” he said quietly, “it’s dead here.” Lance nodded, an almost beatific grin on his face. “Yes. Now, lets go see the water.”

 

*

 

The wind was up, the breakers making loud crashing noises against the shore. Arthur shivered, and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “How you can like this is beyond me. I’m not exactly a fan of the cold.” Lance was wandering up and down the shoreline, his sheepskin boots getting wet. He smiled happily, and dashed after some gulls, scaring them into the air. He laughed, then turned back to face Arthur, walking backward along the water line.

 

“Race you,” he crowed suddenly, spinning around, heading toward the small cave system that Arthur knew was no more than a quarter mile ahead.

 

“Damn it, Lancelot!” he shouted after his friend, then followed, laughing breathlessly.

 

*

 

Arthur arrived a few moments after Lance did, huffing and holding his side. “Don’t call me that,” was the first thing out of the other boy’s mouth, and Arthur merely nodded, hiding his smile behind his heavy breathing. “Sorry.” 

“Hmpfff,” Lance grunted, then scrambled over some rocks toward the back of the cave, and the opening both of them knew was there. Thank God it wasn’t raining; if it had been, the cave would have stunk to high heaven, and the fire Arthur knew Lancelot was going to build wouldn’t work. The pit was right under the crack in the cave ceiling. He meandered along, the cave walls and the slight glow from either lichen or crystals of some sort still as fascinating as the first time he had seen it. By the time he reached the pit, the flames were burning cheerfully, and Lance had somehow scored two bottles of beer that he opened as Arthur sat next to him on an old blanket.

 

Handing him the drink, the younger man smiled, clinking his bottle against Arthur’s.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, then took a pull of his beer. Arthur grinned back, swallowing his own drink.

 

“It’s not til tomorrow,” Arthur admonished, and Lance pulled a face. “I know. But we’ll all be so busy with our own ‘family fun’ that I knew I wouldn’t be around you to say it. So there you go.” 

Family fun. Arthur watched Lancelot closely after that comment, sensing that his friend might need to say something more, but after a few minutes all the younger man had done was drink and stare into the flames. Arthur sighed, and put his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the bag that represented several months of savings to him. “Here,” he said quietly, handing over two small blue boxes to Lance, “these are yours and Guin's. Will you give them to her?”

 

Lancelot pocketed one, and opened the other. “Sure,” he answered distractedly, gazing at the tiny but bright diamond studs. He looked at Arthur.

 

“Get yours out,” he commanded, and Arthur obliged. Opening his own box, he looked at the jewelry, still unbelieving that a small piece of former coal could cost so much. He stared at them, entranced by the winking of the light against the chips of mineral.

 

“Come on, Castus,” came the gentle voice at his ear, “let me.”

 

Arthur relaxed and allowed Lancelot’s long, slender fingers to pry the box from his hands, and watched as the other boy removed the studs from the foam, then shut his eyes as Lance stuck the earrings into Arthur’s ears. He winced slightly; it’d been a few months since he’d worn anything in them, so it hurt. But only briefly. He opened his eyes again when Lance made a contented noise. “Nice,” the younger man commented, tilting his head so Arthur could see his. “Now we’re in the same gang,” he joked, winking once. He sobered, and rested his chin on his knees, which were raised to allow his feet to be close to the fire.

 

“You’re always welcome at my house,” Arthur said quietly, his own head resting on his knees, but his face turned onto the right side so he could watch his friend. “I know,” Lance answered just as quietly. “But if I’m not home to complete the family picture, who knows how Roland would react?” He sighed, his dark eyes reflecting the fire, turning the pupils red. Arthur reached out a hand, grasping Lancelot’s. 

 

They didn’t say anything else, but watched until the flames burnt down.

 

*

 

It was full dark as the boys made their way up the main thoroughfare again, all of the shops closed now. As they neared the private lane that Lancelot’s family lived on, Arthur stopped. He put a hand on Lance’s shoulder, smiling at his friend. “Try and have fun, okay? I’ll see if I can’t sneak out in the evening. I’m sure Uther won’t notice by that time,” he added, a clouded look crossing his face.

 

Lance bit his lip quickly, then smiled back, even though it didn’t affect his deep eyes. “Okay. Try, okay?”

 

Arthur was mostly successful in ignoring the desperation in the request, and nodded, patting the other boy’s shoulder a few times. “Don’t eat too much.” He smirked, and began to walk away toward his own house. “Arthur – wait,” Lancelot called, and he turned, stopping as Lance jogged up to him. “I forgot this,” he said quickly, handing Arthur another blue box. Arthur shook his head, amused at Lancelot’s poor memory. “You’re supposed to give these to Guin, Lance. You’ll see her before I will.”

 

“This isn’t hers,” Lance said, a small blush tinging his cheeks, “just open it later.”

 

He ran back towards his street, his long gait reminding Arthur of an antelope. Lance waved once, and was swallowed quickly by the darkness as he disappeared onto his street.

 

Arthur’s eyes followed Lancelot quizzically for a moment – then he shrugged, pocketing the box, and continued on toward home.

 

*

 

One AM found Arthur in his bedroom after having deposted Uther Castus onto his bed, the older man snoring loudly. “Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” Arthur whispered. It didn’t matter if he had shouted it to the sky – the old man was passed out drunk.

 

After making sure the elder Castus’ gun and nightstick were put away safely, Arthur had brushed his teeth, pulled a tshirt on over his boxers, and sat on his bed, feeling the velvety box Lancelot had presented him with earlier. It was from the same store; however, Arthur hadn’t seen his friend buy anything whilst they were shopping for the earrings. He had been preoccupied with the saleswoman, though, so anything was possible.

 

Taking a breath, he opened the thing, and his eyes went wide and watery.

 

A simple, onyx cross glittered up at him, nestled in the blue velvet. No accents; the material itself didn’t need anything to make it more beautiful. Arthur removed it from the box, holding it by the chain. He let it dangle at eye height, the blackness of it absorbing the light in the room instantly, making it seem the most vibrant thing there. He knew Lancelot had money; what made this a big deal was the fact that the other boy never ceased to take the chance to rib Arthur for his ‘old fashioned’ beliefs in religion. 

 

Arthur didn’t have much in the way of spiritual support, not from his family or most of his friends. His mother had been a devout Catholic, and Arthur’s early schooling had been at a private boys academy, before his father’s job had wound down and the old man had started drinking the funds away. Something about the faith still called to Arthur, still kept him afloat during the good days and bad. God was a mystery he didn’t have to solve to understand, the only one of its kind in his life. The fact that he could believe in something that he couldn’t touch or see always riled Lancelot – the other boy tended to be much more physical, more tangible than Arthur – so the fact he had bought something of a religious nature for Arthur meant more than Arthur could even comprehend at present.

 

He felt the smooth metal, then undid the clasp with trembling fingers, affixing the chain around his neck. He rubbed it, the thing seeming warm and comfortable against his skin. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around the fragile looking but strong feeling cross – a fitting representation of his friendship with Lance.

 

He slept, soundly and peacefully, fingers still holding the small token of his friend’s loyalty and devotion.

 

*

 

Arthur shook his head, almost having to physically push the memories from his mind. He blinked; he was kneeling still at the foot of the Virgin statue, fingers wound around his very old cross, the material still shiny and looking almost as new as it had the day he had been given it. The candle he had lit had almost burnt out; he stood, his legs and back cracking, his muscles cramping from having been in the same position for so long. Shutting his eyes once, he sent a prayer of peace for Lancelot heavenwards, and left the church.

 

*

 

He chose to walk home instead of taking the train; it was only a two mile walk and he could use the time to clear his head, and dig himself out of the past. He had returned the necklace to his pocket, where he occasionally fingered the cool metal. The ocean breeze was soothing, for once only smelling of salt and not pollutants and rot. As he passed by the nightclub owned by Lancelot’s family, The Perfect Circle, he kept his eyes straight ahead, mind on the good times, not the current debacle and fucked up state of his and the other man’s relationship.

 

Entering his loft, he kicked the door shut and locked it, dropping his keys onto the table in the entryway. The message machine was still blinking from earlier; he debated listening to it again, then decided that wasn’t the best thing for him or for Lance. Leaving the lights off, he walked slowly up the stairs, and methodically undressed for the night, brushing his teeth in silence, the only sound the water whirling down the drain.

 

Feeling the chill again, he buried himself under his blankets, eyes to the window, the sounds of the world gradually fading until all he could hear were his memories.

 

_Straighten up, Lancelot. You look like a hunchback – you expect to be able to take over for me looking like that? Your tie’s crooked, boy. And stop scowling._

_How many drinks is that, Lancelot? You are underage, remember. No self respecting man gets drunk in public._

_Are those my cufflinks? Give those to me, boy. You’ll get them when and only when I feel you’re ready._

_What do I do, Arthur? He’s … I can’t do this. I can’t live here like this. He’s killing me._

 

“God,” Arthur murmured, his eyes tearing, his fingers scrabbling for the cross he had set on his nightstand, “help Your child do what’s right.”

 

_Help me help him, should he only ask for it. No matter if it’s the best thing for me, or the worst._

 

He gradually drifted off, the inklike darkness of Lancelot’s eyes sucking him in, drowning him in thoughts of love and hate and confusion, and above all, loss.

 

He’d call the other man in the morning.


End file.
